


Tell Me a Bedtime Story, Daddy

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Everything Hurts, Gen, Hurt very little comfort, Mental Disintegration, Mercy Killing, Sorry this is incredibly sad, Suicide, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first of many short stories I'll be re-posting here from my short story collections on Psychfic.  Not all of the fics will be reposted but you can check out those collections here: http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=413</p><p>The original title for this one was "Precious Treasure" as I was restricted by the rules of that short story challenge.  I pondered retitling this "Dead End" but, while hilarious, seemed a little too flippant for the somber mood of this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me a Bedtime Story, Daddy

This can easily be read as a stand-alone.  However, for more of this universe, I urge you to check out the stories that inspired it; "[No Way Out](http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=403&textsize=0&chapter=19)" and "[Creation](http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=403&textsize=0&chapter=25)" (part of the amazing VampKira's 100 themes series) to understand this one.  Timeline-wise it falls before No Way Out.

 

__________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Holed up in his home for the past four days, tv out since Monday, Henry had been going without sleep since the first panicked reports over the radio had ground to a halt. A weapons stash even his son wasn't aware of, he couldn't drag his mind from numbing fear about the fate of his son. He couldn't make sense of this – not even with seventy two hours stewing on the craziness. He was trapped in the clichéd movie horror that Shawn so adored – and yet there was nothing movie about this. For one, the bodies in the street weren't models stuffed with turkey meat and pig entrails but actual people – bloated with decomp, leaking deoxygenated blood and pus on the concrete. The odor of rot hung in the air. Even the birds had given up foraging as the disease occupying the carcasses scattered around contained a poison that took down scavengers as well.

 

A shift – a soft scrape somewhere downstairs, and Henry tightened his fingers around the shotgun in his lap. His other hand grasped his service pistol, the closest friend he had now that his former poker buddies were currently wandering the town seeking something more addicting than alcohol.

 

Knees popping and back screaming as he levered up from the bathroom floor, Henry felt the blood rush through his limbs in a warm tingle as he eased to the door.

 

Hallway empty save for the body of his neighbor, decapitated from a single shot at close range, he made for the stairs. He knew which ones squeaked and which held their silence after forty years of traversing that pathway. Skipping the second one down – bracing one hand on the wall – he bent to peer past the edge of the ceiling. He could see someone in the kitchen – could recognize the form even though he couldn't see beyond the waist down. He felt a stab in his throat mixing with hope in his chest. Cell phones useless, they hadn't had contact since Saturday. A normal conversation, for them, ending with Shawn blowing him off for... well actually, Henry couldn't even remember.

 

He began moving again, every step down as silent as the one before. The man in front of him didn't move – still facing the French doors looking out over the back yard. The only body visible from here was the neighbor's dog, torn in half and partially devoured by its owner before the man had apparently decided human flesh sounded more appetizing.

 

“Shawn?” The whisper was followed by a swallow, watching his son as he rocked gently back and forth as though a soft breeze was pushing him. There was a dried patch of blood flattening one side of of the styled hair, the rest of it stubbornly holding on to its shape.

 

“Shawn?” Even softer than the first address, and finally there was a response.

 

Only as he started to turn did Henry realize Shawn's feet were bare, torn soles carved up from the brutal travel over unknown surfaces. He locked on the large nail punching through the right foot. There was no blood. _No_.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut before Shawn finished his turn.

 

_Shawn turned, clothes from the closet scattered across the floor around the three year old. But all Henry saw was the tiny form struggling to keep the heavy blue fabric around his baby pudgy form. Even short, the sleeves still hung past his wrists, the rest of the uniform more like a dress than a shirt while the badge clipped to the breast pocket was making an escape attempt towards the floor – dragging half the garment from one rounded shoulder._

 

“ _Shawn, what are you doing?” Fighting the grin as he watched the youngster huff as he pulled at the badge weighted side, Henry couldn't help the pride he felt in spite of the destruction to his closet._

 

“ _I wanna be 'cop!”_

 

_Not even bothering to keep in the laugh, Henry scooped up the giggling toddler. “Well first things first, Sport. Rule number one, cops wear pants.”_

 

Memory skittered away as quickly as it had flooded his mind at the sounds his son now made – no words, but breaths, wet and fast. When Shawn grunted, Henry opened his eyes. Thirty years had changed that little kid into a handsome young man, a smart and self-confident young man. But now that had been stripped from him. His cheeks, still brushed with a struggling growth of barely there beard, were now hollow and discolored. He no longer seemed to fill his clothes but rather, they hung off him like dirty laundry.

 

And his eyes... Henry's breath hitched up before failing him completely. Hazel still, though clouded and dry, sunk into bruised sockets, whites shot with veins. He saw hunger. But what killed his respiration was the other emotion half buried in madness. Pain. Shawn was suffering, and to a level Henry couldn't even fathom.

 

“Oh kid...”

 

He licked his lips before carefully leaning to place his shotgun on the counter. He didn't miss how those hazel eyes tracked the motion – recorded it – before rolling back to stare at the man before him.

 

Henry had been a cop for thirty two years. He knew how to read a situation and plan his attack ten moves ahead of his opponent, preparing for multiple outcomes with multiple strategies for the best possible result. Never before had he so desperately fought that instinct.

 

Shawn's fingers were trembling, and then Henry was out of time as the first step stumbled his son forward. The motion was sharp and lacking the confident strut it should have been. Hesitant and dragging, feet turned inward, pigeon-toed in a way he hadn't been since he was six, Shawn lurched across the five feet of tile separating them.

 

They stared, father and son. It was time. God, oh God it was time. Henry's gut crushed against his spine. And then, slowly, he raised his arms. In his head he saw a soft and giggling bundle – an innocent flushed with joy and life and love for his father. Shawn settled his face in the cook of Henry's neck.

 

Henry's throat bobbed. “I'm sorry.”

 

He felt the lips pull back – teeth tap against his shoulder. Then they lifted slightly, jaw trembling, before once more pressing down.

 

“I love you kiddo.” The words exited seconds before pain lanced through his collarbone. He held tight, feeling blood well up and begin to slowly roll down his chest. The bite began to intensify. Henry hissed at the pain, slowly maneuvering his free hand... and Shawn wailed.

 

In that second, the monster was beaten back – for the breath it took to cry out horror and agony.

 

On the tail end of the scream, Henry pulled the trigger.

 

Shawn's knees buckled instantly and Henry let the gun drop to catch him, the fall slowed as they collapsed together. Clutching tightly, Henry didn't fight the shaking breaths any longer, soundless heaving sobs tearing up from his gut.

 

He sat there while the sun finished its dip towards the water, only noticing the oncoming dark when his skin cooled in the absence of light. His legs had fallen asleep. He looked down. Shawn's eyes were half-lidded, both hunger and hurt gone. Henry brushed his fingertips over the lids but they wouldn't remain closed. He let them be.

 

Part of him still lingering in a world that had died three decades ago he insanely considered that it was getting on towards bedtime and Preschool started early. The first and last audible sob broke like a shriek. He pulled Shawn back against his chest, allowing his chin to settle near the mauled damage created a few hours earlier. Getting his other arm beneath Shawn's legs was awkward, but once his son was cradled he was able to lever up from the floor.

 

Back, knees, arms all creaking and cracking, he turned from the kitchen and the lingering ghosts and headed for the stairs. Shawn was a barely noticed burden, emaciated beneath the hiding layer of clothing. The flash of wondering when his kid had last eaten was followed by a burn of nausea barely contained. Huffing out several breaths, Henry let acids resettle. Then, lifting his head, he marched forward.

 

It could have been ten centuries since he'd emerged from the bathroom, though the body in the hallway proved less than half a day had passed – still in the same state of decay as before. Henry knew that with the accelerated decomp of the infected his neighbor would be skeletal by the end of the week. He wasn't planning to see that though.

 

Shawn's old bedroom was just a couple of doors down from Henry's. Pushing it open all the way with his elbow, Henry entered the smaller space. Posters and toys layered in dust took their toll – heat pounding in his skull as he forced the present to remain before him.

 

His back cracked again as he settled Shawn on the bed. The quilt trapped beneath his son's body, Henry wrestled it free with a couple of furious tugs. Then, more gently, he pulled it over his son, tucking it beneath his arms. He couldn't bring himself to cover Shawn's face.

 

He left the room for just a moment. When he returned, two items were clutched in his hands. In the fingers of his right, he held a small framed picture – he and Shawn sitting together, Shawn's mouth wide in a baby laugh while Henry's face was turned towards his son, eyes crinkled in happiness. This hand he slid beneath Shawn's head as he eased down onto the bed, letting Shawn use his arm as a pillow.

 

The bed creaked as Henry's weight sank down, challenging the structural integrity of the twin-sized boxspring. Sound dimmed. Two levels and a couple of doors separated them from anything that might have been lurking on the property. A flock of those things could be descending on them, though, and Henry wouldn't care. For the first time in days he didn't care about anything.

 

He leaned in and kissed Shawn's cheek, streaked with tears both red and clear. He raised his left hand, the other item he'd retrieved resting in his palm. Metal pressed beneath his jaw, and no longer fighting the tremble, he whispered an answer to a question never spoken.

 

“I always loved you.”

 

He pulled the trigger.


End file.
